A Shot in the Dark
by Deana
Summary: Doc Holliday does something really stupid, and Bart is the one who suffers for it. Despite that, Bart then has to help Doc with his problem.
1. Shoot First, ask Questions Later

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 **A Shot in the Dark**  
A Maverick story by Deana  
I don't own Bart Maverick or Doc Holliday. Phooey.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"He's the one, right there!"

Without warning, Doc Holliday drew his gun and fired. The bullet struck his target, and the victim gave a cry of shock as he fell to the ground.

People ran over to the downed man, and Doc strode over himself, gun still out. If some thief thought that he was going to get away with his hard-earned poker winnings, he had another thing coming...maybe even in the form of another _bullet_.

Doc had been at the poker tables for hours, and his perseverance had won out: literally. He'd walked out of the saloon with over five thousand dollars in his wallet, but as he passed an alley, an open crate had unexpectedly dropped over his head and knocked him to the ground. By the time he'd gotten up again, his wallet was gone and a very helpful stranger pointed out the man who had taken it.

Doc reached the man, who was gasping on the ground as he clutched his left arm to his side. "Where's my money, you thief!" Doc exclaimed, roughly rolling the man over and digging out his wallet. What he saw shocked him to the core: the wallet was inscribed with the name of a person who he knew very well.

Doc finally looked at the 'thief', finding exactly what he feared; Bart Maverick, his best friend, lay there on the ground spilling his blood, eyes shut against the pain. "Bart!" he exclaimed, so shocked that he was almost unable to breathe. "What are _you_ doing here?!"

"B-bleeding," Bart gasped out.

Doc put Bart's wallet back in his friend's inside jacket pocket and quickly pulled Bart up into a sitting position.

"Ooooh," Bart moaned, still clutching his bloody arm. He hunched himself over with a gasp.

Doc pulled him to his feet, with help from some of the other men around them. "Where's the doctor's office!" he shouted.

Everyone pointed past the hotel, and Doc could see a man come out of a shop with a few others and head towards them. It looked like they were going to meet the doctor half way.

Doc pulled Bart along, who stumbled with another moan.

"Who shot him?" the doctor asked, when they reached each other.

Doc hesitated. "I did."

The doctor blinked, wondering why a man would shoot someone and then help him...unless it had been an accident.

But that was the problem; it _hadn't_ been an accident; Doc had shot him on purpose. He'd fired his gun at an innocent man, his _friend_ , without even being sure of whom he was shooting at. Doc could've killed Bart, and at the moment, he felt like the guilt was going to kill _him_.

"This way," the doctor said.

Doc pulled Bart along, bringing him inside the doctor's office and helping him lie on the table. Now that there was light—as it was dark outside and that's why Doc hadn't realized just _whom_ he was shooting—Doc could see the damage that he'd inflicted.

The doctor grabbed a knife off a counter and handed it to Doc. "Cut off his sleeve."

Doc took it and quickly cut through the ruined material of Bart's jacket and shirt; careful not to cut Bart's skin…he'd already hurt him enough. "Sorry, Bart," he said. "I'll buy you a new jacket."

Bart's eyes were squeezed shut and he said nothing.

Once the material was gone, Doc saw why Bart was in so much pain; as if one bullet wound wasn't enough, there was an exit wound too. The bullet had entered the left side of Bart's left arm and gone out the right. Doc winced, desperately hoping that the bullet had somehow missed the bone.

The doctor turned and tossed Doc a towel. Doc used it to wrap around Bart's arm and held it tightly, trying to stop the bleeding.

Bart's eyes squeezed shut tighter and he groaned.

"I'm sorry, Bart," Doc said, wincing himself.

Bart moved his right arm, reaching towards his left side. "Doc," he said.

"Yes?"

Bart swallowed, breathing fast as he dealt with the pain. He reached towards his left side again.

"No touching, Bart," said Doc. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding."

Bart shook his head. He was having obvious trouble speaking and it made Doc feel even more guilty. He'd been shot in the arm before himself and it hadn't hurt quite as bad as it seemed to for Bart, who reached over again but his hand only made it as far as his left side, where he gingerly rested it.

Suddenly, it hit Doc. The bullet had gone into the left side of Bart's left arm and gone out the right…but where did it go after _that_?

Grabbing Bart's jacket, Doc flipped it open to display a red stain on his white shirt. If he could've dropped dead from shock, he would've just then. "Doctor!" he exclaimed.

The doctor turned around from where he was still gathering supplies, and saw.

Doc's eyes were open as wide as humanly possible, as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. The bullet had gone through Bart's arm and into the side of his body… _high_ up his side, a little more than halfway between his waist and armpit. The only place where the bullet could now be was in Bart's lung.

The doctor rushed over and grabbed Bart's shirt, ripping it open with one tug. There wasn't as much blood as they expected, considering, and all Doc could do was stand there and stare, mouth hanging open.

He'd _shot_ Bart. His friend. Bart was going to die.

Bart suddenly winced again and gave a soft cry of pain, bringing Doc out of his shocked stupor.

"The bullet is stuck in a rib," the doctor said, having tried and failed to pull it out. He suddenly headed back over to a counter.

Doc Holliday looked down at the wound, and realized that he could see the bullet. It was, indeed, jabbed into one of Bart's ribs, sticking out of his body. The wound was shallow, as there wasn't much skin over ribs, especially considering that Bart was thin.

Bart would live.

For a minute, Doc felt faint with relief and he blinked his eyes, holding onto the table.

The doctor came back with a pair of pliers. "Hold him down," he said.

Doc took a deep breath and gathered himself as he walked around to the head of the table and put his hands on Bart's shoulders.

The doctor clamped the pliers around the bullet and pulled.

Bart's body jerked and he gave a cry of pain.

"I'm sorry, Bart," Doc said again, still unable to believe that he was the reason for his friend's pain. "I'm sorry!"

The doctor pulled a chair next to the table and held out a towel. "Hold this over his side," he said. "I have to stitch his arm first because it's bleeding the most."

Doc took it with a shaking hand and came back around the table, sitting on it and holding the towel over the wound.

Bart's eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. He flinched when he felt the needle enter the skin in his arm.

The next twenty minutes were agonizing for Bart _and_ Doc as the doctor stitched all three wounds. He put extra stitches in Bart's side, as they would pull every time Bart moved, and the doctor didn't want to risk them tearing.

Bart eventually passed out from the combination of trauma, blood loss, and pain.

Doc sat in the chair beside the table for a long time, staring into space, still unable to believe what had happened. Why had that stranger pointed out Bart, when Bart was obviously _not_ the thief?

Once the doctor had cleaned up and put all of his instruments away, he turned to look at Doc, whom he knew had needed this time to sit quietly and calm down. "We should move him to a bed."

Doc looked up and blinked a couple of times before standing. He and the doctor carefully lifted Bart off the table and carried him over to a bed, gently laying him down. He was shirtless, with only the bandage wrapped around his torso, so the doctor pulled the blanket up over him.

Doc went over to the chair beside the table and grabbed it, bringing it over and placing it beside the bed. He sat down and sighed, trying to figure out what exactly had happened here. He'd been robbed, a stranger incorrectly identified Bart as the thief, and Doc had shot him. Did the stranger make a mistake, or did he implicate Bart on purpose?

Was that _stranger_ the real thief?

Doc sighed again. He needed to find that man… _after_ Bart woke up.

TBC


	2. Ow, Doc

Bart woke slowly, knowing that he was awake, but at the same time, he felt like he was dreaming. He felt floaty and his mind was muddled, unsure of what had happened. Opening his eyes wasn't easy, but he felt like something was wrong and it was urgent for him to know what.

Suddenly it came back to him, in the form of pain…awful pain that pulsed up and down his left arm, as well as his upper left side.

"I wouldn't move if I were you, Bart," he heard.

Bart finally managed to open his eyes, blinking blearily at the man sitting in a chair beside the bed. "Doc?" he said.

Seeing Bart laid up brought back memories to Doc from nearly a year ago, when Bart had been attacked and ended up with amnesia as a result of a serious concussion*. Doc had given an entire month of his life taking care of his friend and trying to help him regain his memory. "That's me," Doc said, but his voice lacked its usual jovial tone.

Bart closed his eyes with a wince, his right hand straying to his injured side.

Doc reached over and grabbed his wrist. "I wouldn't do _that_ if I were you, either."

Bart tried to control his breathing as the pain throbbed. He remembered hearing a gunshot. "Who shot me?" he asked.

Doc sighed. "You don't know?"

Bart weakly shook his head, eyes closed.

"Can you figure it out?"

That wasn't the answer that Bart was expecting. "What?" he asked.

Doc dropped his face in one hand. "You're really gonna make me say it? It's not bad enough that it happened? _I_ did, Bart. _I_ shot you."

Bart opened his eyes and looked at him before suddenly laughing.

Doc didn't expect that, and wondered if Bart had hit his head when he fell. That was the _last_ thing they needed!

Bart gasped from the pain and put his hand over the wound and cracked rib in his side before Doc could stop him. He couldn't hold back a groan.

"No laughing either, Bart," Doc said. "You know what it's like to be shot, for goodness sake!"

"You…" said Bart, breathing heavily around the pain. "You said…you shot me...once before. It was...a joke then, too..."*

Doc frowned before he remembered. When Bart had amnesia, he'd joked to Bart that they met when Bart beat him at poker and they'd had a duel and both shot each other. Bart didn't know that he was joking and had choked on his dinner in shock. "I'm serious this time, Bart. In the dark, I thought you were the man who'd just robbed me."

Bart opened his eyes. "You really…shot me?"

Doc nodded, hanging his head.

Bart said nothing for a minute and Doc waited for his reaction.

"Ow, Doc," Bart justifiably whined.

"I'm sorry," Doc said, feeling terrible. "I've never been sorrier for anything in my life."

Bart was quiet again for a minute. "Well," he finally said. "At least I don't have to worry...that someone is after me." He winced again.

Doc shook his head. "You don't, unless that man pointed you out _because_ he wants you dead."

"Huh?"

Doc explained to Bart what had happened, having to repeat himself a couple of times when Bart was too focused on the pain to hear him.

"He…must've been…the thief," Bart said, eyes closed tight against the throbbing.

Doc nodded, before remembering that Bart couldn't see him with his eyes closed. "That's what I was thinking."

Bart was trying not to voice his pain too much, not wanting Doc to feel guiltier than he already did, but a moan slipped out before he was able to stop it.

"I'm sorry," Doc said again.

Bart sighed, carefully, as it pulled on the wound in his side. He still had a hand over it and he carefully moved his hand up as if to figure out exactly where it was on his body. It was only about five or six inches away from his armpit, and he realized with shock that the bullet could've easily ended up in his lung and killed him, and it would've if it hadn't gone through his arm first. He stopped himself from saying anything.

Doc could tell what he was thinking. Bart really had been very lucky, considering. "The bullet cracked the rib that was in the way of your lung."

Bart winced, his hand over the wound again. "I can tell." But they were both relieved that his rib had stopped the bullet in the first place, so he added, "Thank God."

Doc nodded with a sigh, and they were quiet for a minute.

Bart wondered what time it was; he was exhausted, but he knew that the pain would prevent him from falling asleep.

As if he read his mind, Doc suddenly said, "It's one o'clock in the morning, Bart. You should go to sleep."

"I'm trying," Bart answered. A moment later, he thought of something. "You in trouble?" he asked.

"Me?" asked Doc. "Oh, you mean for…shooting you?" He could hardly say it.

Bart nodded.

Doc shrugged. "I dunno. The sheriff hasn't come around; maybe he didn't hear what happened yet."

"I won't…press charges…" Bart mumbled, as his wounded body finally demanded rest and he drifted off to sleep.

Doc sighed. "You _should_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Bart woke the next morning, the pain hadn't abated and he groaned before he was even fully awake.

"Take it easy, son," he heard. It was obviously the doctor.

Bart heard the sound of liquid being poured and he opened his eyes to find the man standing beside the bed with a glass of water. He submitted when the doctor carefully lifted his head so he could drink, and he didn't pull the glass away until it was empty.

Bart closed his eyes. "Thanks."

"Anytime," said the doctor putting the glass down on the nightstand.

Bart reopened his eyes and looked around the room, seeing no one else. "Where'd Doc go?" he asked.

"The sheriff wanted a word with him," said the doctor.

Uh oh.

"He wanted to talk to you too, and I'm supposed to tell him when you wake up," the doctor continued.

Bart sighed—carefully. He closed his eyes with a wince, before saying, "Go get him." He wanted to make sure he got the sheriff off Doc's back before his friend ended up in jail.

"All right. Don't move while I'm gone," said the doctor, before leaving.

Bart had no intention of it. The wound in his side was throbbing, and his arm hurt so much that he couldn't shift it at all. Bart suddenly noticed something on the wall across from him which read: 'Lesson 1: Don't Get Shot'. Bart had to inwardly laugh. _Lesson 2,_ he thought. _If you must get shot, don't get shot three times with only one bullet._ He sighed. _Only you, Bart Maverick,_ he thought. _Only you could get three bullet wounds from one bullet._

"Bart?" he suddenly heard.

Opening his eyes, Bart realized that he must've drifted off again. Doc, the sheriff, and the doctor were standing there, and he'd never heard them come in. The sheriff was holding Doc by one arm, as if wanting to keep him away from Bart.

"Sheriff," Bart said, trying not to wince. "Let him go."

The sheriff frowned. "You mean his story is true?"

Bart nodded. "Doc is my friend. I'm not pressing charges."

"Three wounds and a cracked rib from one bullet and you're not pressing charges?" the sheriff said. He looked at the doctor. "Is your patient all right in the head?"

The doctor nodded. "Seems like it to me."

"Blood loss stopping him from thinking straight?" the sheriff persisted.

The doctor shook his head. "Blood loss wasn't severe."

The sheriff looked at Bart again. "Are you sure about this?"

Bart nodded his head. "I'm sure."

The sheriff sighed and let go of Doc's arm. "You really have a good friend, here," he said to Doc. "You better be thinking of a way to make this up to him." The sheriff had been shot before himself, and knew well the amount of pain it caused from _one_ wound, nevermind three.

Doc nodded, looking contrite. "I know, and I am."

The sheriff nodded and left.

Doc sat down in the chair beside the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Bart said, which was a complete lie.

Doc looked surprised and relieved.

"What about your stolen money?" Bart asked.

Doc sighed and shook his head. "Fifty-five hundred dollars, gone like that." He snapped his fingers.

"Fifty-five hundred?" Bart echoed.

Doc nodded.

Bart had no idea that it was so much. "We gotta get it back."

"How?" said Doc. "I don't know who took it, and what do you mean 'we'? You can't do anything to help in your condition."

That was true, at the moment, anyway. "There has to be _some_ way," Bart said.

"If you think of something, I'm all ears, Bart."

Bart thought for a minute. "Ask around town if anyone saw who pointed me out to you as the thief."

Doc sighed. "It was dark, Bart, I doubt that will work."

"You should at least try," Bart said.

Doc nodded. Bart was right, of course. He sighed. "You should eat. I'll get you some breakfast." With that, he got up and left, not waiting for an answer.

Bart closed his eyes and sighed carefully. What he wanted was more sleep; he was relieved that he hadn't lost too much blood—getting to the doctor quickly was the reason for that—but the pain was exhausting. He'd tried to sound stronger as he'd spoken to Doc, but in reality, he felt weak.

It didn't take Doc long to come back, and he placed a tray on the nightstand. "You awake?" he asked.

Bart opened his eyes in answer.

Doc made a face, trying to figure out how to help Bart sit up with that wound in his side. He went around to Bart's right. "Don't move, let me do it," he said.

Bart complied.

Doc slid an arm under his friend's shoulders and pulled him upright, holding him there while he used his other hand to stand the pillows up behind him.

Bart closed his eyes with a wince, and tried to noiselessly let out his breath through his nose after Doc leaned him back, not wanting him to see how much it had hurt.

Doc watched him. "You all right?"

Bart reopened his eyes. "Fine," he said.

Doc didn't believe him. Reaching for the tray, he placed it on his friend's lap and removed the cover. It contained a plate of eggs and bacon.

It smelled delicious, and Bart started to eat it, knowing that he had to rebuild his strength. It took him a minute to realize that Doc had none for himself. "Where's yours?" he asked.

"I already ate," Doc lied.

Bart knew that it wasn't the truth; Doc's guilt had obviously robbed him of his appetite; something that Bart had never seen happen in all the years that he'd known him. "You don't have to sit here and stare at me all day," he told his friend. "You should look for your money."

Doc nodded. "I will…after I stare at you all day."

Bart smiled; glad to hear the joke. Doc was still there, under the guilt.

Doc didn't smile though, sighing instead. They were quiet for a while, and after Bart finished eating, he dozed off again.

Doc remained where he sat for a long time, still unable to believe that he'd shot Bart. Suddenly, he felt like he had to get out of there, and he might as well go now while Bart was asleep. Standing, he remembered that the doctor had gone out himself after telling them that he'd be back. Doc didn't want to leave Bart alone, so he paced until the doctor returned, and then he left.

Walking around outside, Doc took a deep breath of fresh air and let it out heavily. Out here, he could pretend that last night hadn't happened…for a minute or two, anyway. Nothing could erase what he'd done, and he found himself standing at the very alley where he'd been robbed. Looking around, he spotted something on the ground and picked it up.

It was a Spanish doubloon.

Doc frowned. Where on earth had _that_ come from? Did it belong to the thief? It seemed like too much of a coincidence _not_ to, but the man who'd pointed Bart out to him last night hadn't been Mexican.

Sighing, Doc put it in his pocket and took out a cigar, lighting it and leaning on a nearby post to think.

TBC

* 'If Memory Serves': story ID 11080276


	3. Don't Help the Man who Shot You

Bart slept for most of the day, not waking until near suppertime. He immediately winced and couldn't hold back a groan.

"It's about time you woke up."

Bart blearily opened his eyes, blinking at the man who was sitting in a chair next to his bed. "Doc?"

"Right on the first try," said Doc. "Look what I found."

It took a few seconds for Bart to be able to focus on what Doc was holding before his face. Obviously, Doc had been going crazy waiting for him to wake up so he could show him this. "A doubloon," he mumbled.

"Right again," said Doc. He reached over Bart's body and grabbed his right wrist, pulling it forward so he could place the coin in his hand.

Bart blinked at it, wondering why Doc was so excited. "Where?"

"In the alley. I think the real thief dropped it," said Doc.

Bart nodded his head. "Possibly." He lowered his hand and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a careful breath.

Doc frowned. "What's wrong? Besides the obvious…"

"You're going too fast for me," said Bart, eyes still closed as pain throbbed through his left side and arm. He suddenly heard water being poured into a cup, and he reopened his eyes just as it appeared before his face.

Doc helped him drink it. "Sorry," he said. He had a feeling that he would likely repeat that phrase again before morning.

Bart had fallen asleep that day still reclined upright a little, so it wasn't hard for him to drink the water without moving. "Thanks."

Doc nodded and put the cup back on the nightstand. He sat there quietly watching Bart until his friend looked a little better.

Bart eventually raised the coin again and looked at it. "Did you ask around town who it belongs to?"

Doc shook his head. "No, I thought that would make it too obvious. If the thief finds out that I'm using it to try to find him, he'll leave town—if he hasn't already—and I'll never see my money again. I…need someone else to pretend that they found it and are simply trying to find the owner to return it to him."

Bart was quiet for a minute. "Me."

Doc shrugged. "After you've recovered some…once you're back on your feet…if you want to."

Bart nodded. It made sense. "We'll see how I am in the morning."

Doc blinked. "Tomorrow?"

Bart nodded. "If possible. The longer we wait, the better the chance that you'll never get that money back."

Now Doc felt even more guilty. Bart planned to get out of bed too soon to help him find his money? After what he'd done? He didn't know what to say.

"I know that you didn't mean to shoot me," Bart said, seeing the expression on Doc's face.

Doc sighed. "That doesn't change the fact that I _did_."

"Well I hope this taught you not to shoot in the future until you know who you're pointing your gun at," Bart said.

Doc nodded. "Believe me, it has." He sighed again. "I still think you're taking this too well. _Are_ you all there in the head?"

Bart smiled slightly. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll have something to say when I try to stand up for the first time."

Doc chuckled.

A short time later, he fetched supper and they ate: including Doc this time. Guilt had stopped him from eating all day, but now he was hungry.

Bart was glad. He'd never seen Doc so full of guilt before.

The night passed slowly, with Bart not sleeping very well because of the pain; it was impossible for him to shift his position. When he finally fell into a deeper sleep, it lasted hours, and he didn't open his eyes again until nearly noon the next day.

"Well, well, well," said Doc. "Finally decided to come back, eh?"

Bart was momentarily confused, and blinked groggily. "From where?" he mumbled, before saying, "Oh."

"Feeling better?" Doc asked, with a hopeful note in his voice.

Bart said nothing at first, assessing himself. He didn't feel as weak, and the pain had dimmed in both his arm and side, but he knew it was because he'd been immobile for two days, and it would definitely get worse again once he started moving. "Yeah," he said.

"Good," said Doc. "You've been giving me gray hairs this past year, you know."

Bart smiled. "I can see them."

Doc's expression became one of shock. "What? You can? Where?" He started running his hand through his hair, as if he could knock them out of his head.

Bart couldn't help it: he laughed...for one second, before realizing what a bad idea that was. The laugh turned into a groan that he couldn't hold back, and he placed his hand over the wound in his side.

Doc stopped trying to dislodge imaginary gray hairs and reached over, but he was on the side of Bart's wounded arm and didn't want to touch it. "You should know better than to laugh, Bart."

Bart almost replied, 'you should know better than to _make_ me laugh,' but he didn't want to add more guilt to Doc's pile. "Didn't think," he mumbled, through clenched teeth.

"There's a lot of not-thinking going around," Doc said, with a sigh. They were both silent for a minute before he spoke again. "Bart?"

"What?"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That I have gray hair?"

"No, Doc."

* _sigh_ * "Good." Doc paused. " _You_ do, though."

"What?!"

"I'm joking too, Bart."

"Good."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once the afternoon rolled around, Bart asked Doc to help him up, knowing that his friend was nervously awaiting the chance to look for the man who had stolen his money. Fifty-five hundred dollars was an insane amount to lose, and even though Bart wasn't healthy yet, he knew that time was of the essence; it might already be too late.

"Are you sure about this?" Doc asked, as he stared at his friend, who was sitting up on the edge of the bed.

Bart knew that it was too soon, but he nodded anyway.

Doc grabbed a black jacket off the nearby chair and carefully slid it up his friend's wounded arm, before holding it so Bart could slip his other arm in. Doc adjusted it in the front and looped a sling around Bart's neck before gently settling his wounded arm inside.

Bart suddenly realized something. "This isn't my jacket."

Doc shook his head. "It was ruined. I told you I'd buy you a new one."

Bart looked down at it, fingering the lapel, which had a satin piping down the outside edge. It definitely wasn't cheap. "I like it. Thank you."

"It's the least I could do," Doc said, sounding guilty again as he took Bart's good arm and carefully pulled him to his feet.

Bart winced and slid his hand under the sling, placing it over the wound and cracked rib in his side. He felt dizzy and leaned against Doc, sucking in a breath when the pain increased.

"Now's your chance to yell at me," said Doc. "Don't hold it back, Bart, I deserve it."

Bart considered it, but held his tongue. Doc _did_ deserve it, but his immense guilt was punishment enough. Instead, Bart sighed heavily once the flare of pain died down a little, straightened up, and took a step.

Doc kept a hand on his arm, gripping it tightly as they started to walk to towards the door. "If you need to stop, you'll tell me, right?" Doc asked. "I'm not gonna find out that you pushed yourself too far by watching you suddenly pass out and fall to the dirty, dusty ground, am I?"

Bart smiled slightly. "We'll see," he joked.

Doc chuckled.

Once outside, they looked around a little as they tried to decide which way to go.

"No more obvious place than the saloon," said Bart.

Doc nodded his agreement, and they slowly headed over. Once they reached the doors, Bart stopped. "We shouldn't go in together," he said. "If the thief is in there and sees you with me while I'm looking for him..."

Doc nodded and reluctantly let go of his friend's good arm.

Bart walked into the saloon and surveyed the place. The people who looked in his direction merely had curiosity on their faces rather than apprehension, and it was obvious that everyone knew what had happened to him. He slowly made his way inside and over to a table where a poker game was in play.

The man in Bart's line of sight looked up at him. "Maverick, that's yer name, right?"

Others at the table turned to see him.

"That's right," Bart said.

"You don't stay down long, eh?" said the man, referring to his injuries.

Bart shook his head, taking the doubloon out of his pocket and tossing it up and down. "No," he said.

"Play poker?" asked someone else.

"Sure do, but not today," Bart said, indicating his sling-encased arm. He noticed that no one reacted to the doubloon, so he eventually walked off. He never saw Doc come in and head to the bar, where he ordered his usual whiskey and sat facing the room.

Bart had no luck with the customers in the bar until a man suddenly said to him, "What's that you got there?"

Bart looked at him. "It's a doubloon," he said, holding it up

The man looked at it, before saying, "You wanna sell it?"

Bart frowned; that was the last thing he expected to hear. "Not really."

The man shrugged and went back to his drink.

Bart walked away, thinking. Was that the coin owner's way of trying to get it back without revealing himself? He turned around, seeing Doc sitting there watching. Bart scratched his face nonchalantly, using his thumb to gesture towards the man without making it obvious.

Doc shook his head slightly. He wasn't the man.

Bart turned around again, seeing that no one was watching him. Apparently, the thief was not in the saloon…at the moment. Bart started walking over to an empty table, feeling worn out, his injuries paining him more than he wanted to admit.

A nearby barmaid saw him, and gave him a smile. "You look like someone who really needs a drink."

Bart was sure he did, with his arm in a sling and face looking pale. He smiled back. "Coffee will do."

She nodded and left.

Doc watched him for a second, before pouring himself another shot of whiskey. He had a feeling that the thief was gone and they were wasting their time: especially Bart, who had no obligation to help him, especially after being _shot_ by him!

The caffeine in the coffee lent Bart the strength to get up and leave the saloon, and he sat on the first bench that he came across, waiting for Doc, who showed up a minute later.

"No luck," Bart told him.

"I saw," said Doc, sitting beside him. He looked at his friend for a few seconds, seeing how pale he looked. "I'm changing my mind," he said. "You don't have to help me find whoever owns that doubloon."

Bart looked at him. "Why not?"

Doc frowned. "Do you still have brain damage from last year's amnesia, or something? You're not healthy enough to help. It's bad enough that I shot you; I don't want to be responsible for you having a dizzy spell or fainting or something and hurting yourself worse. If you fall, your cracked rib could break all the way."

Bart knew that he was right; he was in a lot more pain than he was letting Doc see. "I'm fine," he said anyway.

Doc huffed.

They sat quietly for a while, Doc not wanting to get Bart up until he was ready.

Finally, Bart sighed—carefully, as deep breaths didn't agree much with his rib—and moved to stand.

Doc leapt to his feet and grabbed his friend's arm, pulling him up.

"Thanks," Bart said. It definitely hurt less when he didn't have to do all the work. He started to take a step, but abruptly, his vision suddenly spun.

Doc gasped when Bart's knees suddenly buckled, and he grabbed him before he could fall. "See? See? I _told_ you!"

Bart closed his eyes against the dizziness and gasped when Doc's hand accidentally touched the wound and cracked rib. He felt himself placed back onto the bench, where he slumped bonelessly, feeling like he was floating. _Lesson 3,_ he thought. _Don't get out of bed too soon to help the man who shot you._

Doc grasped Bart's good arm, to keep him from sliding off the bench, anxiously watching as his friend tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, Bart's senses seemed cut-off; his hearing dimmed and it seemed like time was passing without his knowledge. He knew that he was seconds away from losing consciousness, and even though painless sleep was what he really needed, he fought it, and somehow opened his eyes, blearily blinking.

Doc watched him with a frown. "Bart? You with me?"

Bart took as deep a breath as he was able to with his cracked rib. "Think so," he mumbled.

"Didn't I _tell_ you this would happen!" Doc exclaimed.

Bart was too tired to argue. "Yes, you did, Doc." He closed his eyes. _Lesson 4: Especially if that man is Doc Holliday._

"Oh no you don't," said Doc, squeezing his arm. "If you pass out, you're staying right here until you wake up: you can't be carried with a cracked rib."

That was true. Bart reopened his eyes.

"Good boy," said Doc. "Can you get up without swooning like a woman again?"

"Didn't swoon," Bart mumbled.

Doc didn't understand the words. "What was that?"

"Didn't swoon," Bart said more clearly.

"What else would you call it, then?" Doc asked. "Forget it, come on, up you go." With that, he stood and carefully pulled his friend to his feet. "If you thought getting up was an opportunity to go back to your room at the hotel, think again; you're going back to the doctor's."

Doc knew him well. "Why?" Bart asked.

"The stairs, why else? I doubt you could make it up them," said Doc. He held onto Bart tightly once he was standing. "You okay?"

Bart almost nodded, but thought better of it. "Yeah."

They slowly started to walk back, and by the time they arrived, Bart couldn't stop yawning. He barely registered it when he was suddenly sitting on the bed. Hands carefully took his wounded arm out of the sling and pulled his jacket off before helping him lie down.

Bart had his eyes closed through the whole thing, and he fell asleep without reopening them.

TBC


	4. The Thief

Bart slept for hours, not waking until he accidentally moved and sent pain rippling through his arm. He gasped and woke himself up, finding that he was alone in the room. It was a couple of minutes before he could breathe normally again after the flare of pain, and he tried to sit himself up a little, succeeding after what seemed like an eternity. It wore him out, and he knew that getting up and walking around earlier was one of the reasons. Closing his eyes, he laid there breathing heavily, and when he reopened them, he found Doc standing near the bed. The sight startled him; he hadn't heard him come in.

"How long have you been awake?" Doc asked.

Bart sighed carefully. "Five or six minutes."

"How many of those minutes were spent trying to sit up?" Doc asked next.

Bart smiled slightly at the question. "Most of them."

Doc echoed the sigh. "Thought so. You should've waited for me to get back."

Bart closed his eyes. "Didn't know when that would be."

Doc nodded. "You have a point there." He was holding a tray and he set it on the nightstand, taking his own plate off before placing the tray on Bart's lap. "Eat."

Bart wasn't very hungry, but he obeyed.

"I tried to find whoever owns the doubloon," Doc said, as he chewed. "I had no luck either."

"What if you find him and he's not the thief?" said Bart, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

Doc had thought of that himself; just because the doubloon was in the alley didn't mean that it definitely belonged to the man who had robbed him. "In that case…I will not be happy."

Bart didn't blame him one bit; he'd be missing fifty-five hundred dollars with no hope of getting it back. "Do you have anymore ideas?"

Doc shook his head. "It looks like rain," he said. "Can't hunt in the rain."

As if on cue, thunder rolled in the distance.

"There's gotta be something we can do," said Bart.

Doc shook his head. "There's nothing, Bart. I think my money is long gone. While that crate was over my head, those beautiful dollar bills were waving goodbye to me from that stranger's pocket."

Bart sighed as he finished eating. "So you plan to give up?"

Doc shrugged. "It's hard to do, but hard _not_ to do, when I know that it must be gone by now."

Thunder rolled again, louder this time.

"I have an idea," Bart said.

Doc looked at him.

"I'll play poker, and after I win enough, I'll go outside and pass that alley," Bart said. "Maybe the thief will do the same thing to me, and you'll be right there to grab him."

Doc just stared at him. "You'll risk violence to yourself while already wounded?"

Bart shrugged with the shoulder on his good arm. "We have to get your money back."

Doc didn't know what to say. Bart would do that for him after what he'd done?

Bart could easily tell what Doc was thinking. "Friends help each other, Doc."

It was another few seconds before Doc could speak. "But can it really be that easy?"

Bart nodded. "Criminals are stupid. And if it doesn't work, what harm will it do to try? I'll have made some money and _not_ had a crate dropped over my head."

Doc laughed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day was a little less painful for Bart. He stayed in bed all day and slept as much as he could in preparation for the night's plans, and as the sun was setting, he and Doc made their way over to the saloon. A quick scan of the room showed that the stranger wasn't there, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't eventually show up and notice who was winning. Bart and Doc chose different tables, and each began to play.

Luck was on Bart's side, as he hoped that it would be, and he was winning from the very first hand. He quickly found that his opponents weren't very skilled, and his pile of money steadily increased. Doc was doing well too, and kept looking to see if the stranger ever entered the saloon. From what he could tell, the man never did.

Time passed sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. It didn't take long before Bart grew tired despite the rest he'd gotten that day, as his wounded body had not yet regained its full strength. The pain in his arm and side was getting harder to ignore, and Bart was glad that it was his _left_ arm that had taken the bullet, as he merely had to hold the cards in the hand that stuck out of the sling.

With a smile, Bart laid down three jacks and two tens, which turned out to be his last hand of the night. He raked in the pile and counted it one-handed, coming up with forty-seven hundred dollars.

"How can one man be so lucky?" one of the players loudly asked. "You must be cheatin'! You have cards hidden in that sling!" He pulled out his gun.

Doc, sitting at the table behind the man, had his own gun in hand and shoved into the man's back before the player could blink. "Put it away," he said, jabbing the man in the back. " _Now._ "

The man turned to see who it was, and when he realized that the feared Doc Holliday was the person defending Bart, he quickly obeyed.

"Smart boy," said Doc. He motioned for Bart to leave the saloon.

Bart obeyed, standing with a wince that he tried to hide and shoving the money into his pocket. He walked over to the door and outside, and a few seconds later, Doc joined him.

"Thanks, Doc," Bart said with relief, before shoving something into his friend's hands and walking off—towards the alley.

Doc looked down to find that Bart had given him his poker winnings to hold onto so that the thief couldn't get it. _Good thinking, Bart,_ he thought. He followed ten feet behind him, half-hoping that the thief would strike, and half-hoping that he wouldn't, for the wounded Bart's sake.

Bart was thinking of Doc's money more than his own safety, and when something suddenly fell over his head, he gasped, despite knowing that it was coming. It was indeed an open crate, the inside bottom landing on his head—the impact making him see a flash—and the sides going halfway down his arms, painfully scraping the bullet wound on the outside of his arm, and squishing his arm against his body, making the inside wound bump into the one in his side. He found himself sitting on the ground while hands roughly grabbed his jacket.

A second later, the hands were gone.

Bart painfully pushed the crate off himself, in time to see Doc punch the man in the face and send him flying. Doc took out his gun and held it on him, but the man didn't move; he was out cold. Doc then looked at Bart and ran the few steps over before kneeling. "You all right?"

Bart looked at him and sighed, his good hand gripping his wounded arm. "You forgot to tell me something, Doc."

Doc frowned. "What's that?"

"That it would hurt," Bart said, with a wince.

"You're the one who wanted to help," Doc said.

Bart rubbed the top of his head. "Don't remind me."

Doc couldn't help but chuckle, as he reached for his friend's good arm and pulled him up, before they made their way back to the unconscious man.

Bart looked down at him. "That's the stranger?"

Doc nodded. "Yep." He held out his hand to Bart. "Thanks."

Bart smiled and shook it. "You're welcome." He yawned. "Can I go back to bed now?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The stranger turned out to be a stranger indeed: a man passing through town and robbing people along the way. Doc's money was found in the thief's hotel room—minus only one hundred dollars. He was overjoyed at that, and celebrated with the hotel's most expensive bottle of whiskey, bringing it to Bart's hotel room the next day, where he sat in a chair while a tired Bart stayed in bed.

"You really didn't have to help me after I shot you, Bart, accident or not," Doc said. "Honestly…I've..." He shrugged almost shyly. "I've never had a friend like you.

Bart smiled. "Glad to help, Doc."

"You're probably the only person I know who would've," Doc said, downing a glass of whiskey.

Bart inwardly agreed. Most people were afraid of Doc Holliday, and plenty had good reason, but very few people knew him the way Bart did: as a loyal friend.

"So where we goin' next?" Doc suddenly asked.

Bart frowned. "Next?"

Doc nodded. "Next. I got my money back, you won nearly just as much last night...we either gotta go spend it, or use it to make even more." He went to pour more whiskey into his glass, but found that the bottle was empty.

Bart looked down at his left arm, which was still in the sling. "Can I have more time to recover first?"

Doc nodded as he stood. "Sure, Bart, just don't take _too_ long." He opened the door just as a bellboy walked by. "Right on time! My whiskey ran out, bring me another bottle, boy!"

The boy shot him a terrified look and ran down the hall.

Doc closed the door, looked at Bart, and rubbed his hands together. "So what trouble can we get into next? Any ideas?"

There was only one way for Bart to reply to that; he groaned and pulled the covers over his head. _Lesson 5: Make safer friends…_

THE END


End file.
